Operation Toast
by That-Moment-of-Deja-Vu
Summary: In which the world is royally screwed, zombies come to nom, Russia is bored, and America plays with WMD's while wanting some toast.


_**A/N: I have (and always will have) an unhealthy zombie obsession. So this little cliché just had to happen. I regret nothing.**_

**Warnings: Language/violence/our boys being BAMF's**

_This is really rather tedious,_ Russia mused as he brought his pipe down on another Unfortunate's (Ivan detests the word 'zombie') head. Said 'Unfortunates' skull caved in like an eggshell and Ivan continued on his merry way, bloodied pipe in one hand and a package of bread swinging in the other, whistling a happy tune as he stepped around the many bodies that littered the streets nowadays.

Russia pursed his lips as his foot landed in a puddle of blood, splashing the red liquid all over his coat. _Must remind Alfred about urban sanitary protocol. It's quite a mess out here. _He continued his way down the street to Alfred's house when the sounds of shuffling feet drew his attention to the group of five zombies coming his way. Ivan sighed. He was so close to home. It was bad enough that America had sent him to get the bread, even worse that he had to run into these Unfortunates. He was never one for liking morning exercise. In the beginning, Russia quite enjoyed his run-ins with the undead, but four months into the apocalypse, the novelty of smashing skulls with his lead pipe was lost and he became bored with the encounters. Pity.

Jumping onto a near-by car, Ivan swung his pipe and accurately caved in another zombies face. He was about to give another Unfortunate the same treatment when he felt a zombie's hand snag on the bread bag, ripping the package and sending the bread flying in different directions where it was promptly trampled by more of the approaching undead.

Russia's eyebrow twitched and his sweet (if not slightly insane) smile dissolves. That was _Alfred's_ bread. And they ruined it.

Ivan pressed a small button on the side of his pipe, causing a long and very lethal blade to slide out of the end (courtesy of Canada as a birthday present), then proceeded to extract his swift revenge on the moaning undead.

* * *

Alfred didn't look up from his work when he heard the front door slam open then shut. He didn't need to; only one person could get through his security system alive anyway.

"You get the bread?" he asked as Russia entered the kitchen.

"I did," Ivan replied coolly, walking over to the table where his lover was working. "But then I was….distracted."

Alfred cursed under his breath. He really wanted some toast. America glanced up at the other man for the first time, blue eye's flashing when he saw Russia's coat soaked in blood. Alarmed, he started to get out of his seat. "Any of that yours?"

Russia waved away his concern and went to make himself a drink from their depleting supply of coffee. "Like I said; I was distracted."

Any reply America would've made was cut off by the sounds of nails scratching against the front door. Alfred groaned and stretched his sore muscles. "Can't we go one day without a hoard dead motherfuckers clawing away at our door?"

"I believe the term is 'living impaired'. Honestly, Alfred, do show some respect."

America rolled his eyes and returned to his table/work place, observing the many small bags that littered the surface with a clinical eye. Satisfied, he selected one of the yellow one's labeled 'm' and handed it to Ivan. "You'll take care of them," America stated with a grin. "For failing operation 'I-Want-Some-Goddamn-Toast'."

Now it was Russia's turn to roll his eyes, but he still went to the second story window without complaint, opened it, threw the bag down onto the Unfortunates crowding their door, and quickly shut the window. Ivan watched with fascination of the bag broke upon contact with the ground and a thick cloud of gas erupted from the bag, shielding the now screaming undead from view.

When Russia returned to the kitchen, America was watching the zombies through the boarded windows with a smug smile.

"What did you make this time?" Ivan asked, voice completely nonchalant and unconcerned with the melting zombies outside their house.

"Homemade mustard gas," Alfred replied, practically buzzing with energy and satisfaction at his creation.

Russia raised a silver eyebrow at the melting Unfortunates. Alfred smirked. "I might've added a few other things to it. For the sake of science, of course," He added quickly.

"Of course," Ivan agrees coolly, head tilting slightly to the side as Alfred starts rummaging around the kitchen muttering about toast. Russia takes a moment to study Alfred's latest 'projects'. The table top was littered with various tubes of acids, makeshift bombs, and other deadly weapons. Honestly, the man's knowledge of biochemical warfare was a cause for concern. Their entire kitchen was considered a threat to public health safety these days. Not that it could be helped (or that there _was_ much of a 'public' anymore). Desperate times and all that.

"Don't touch that," Alfred said without turning around as Ivan was about to pick up a black colored bag. "It'll flatten the entire tri-state area."

Russia then decided it best to keep away from the table. "Any news from England?" He asked, having to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the Unfortunates still screaming from their front lawn.

America snorted. "Europe is still in too much of a panic for them to come up with any plan of action worth our attention." He hopped up to sit on the counter, facing Russia. "I mean really, Matthew and I have been telling Arthur for years to come up with his own zombie apocalypse plan, but does he ever listen? No, and now look where it's gotten them. Honestly, what idiot doesn't expect an invasion from the living dead?"

Ivan raised an amused eyebrow at his childish lover. "Most of us don't spend an unhealthy amount of time watching cliché horror films, my dear America. Therefore, many people do not, in fact, place 'zombie apocalypse planning' at the top of their 'to-do' lists."

America snorted again. "Idiots."

They sit in silence for around two minutes before America hops off the counter-top and disappears into his room before returning moments later with his signature, nail-studded, base-ball bat.

"We still need bread," America says in response to Russia's unspoken question.

Ivan eye's the base-ball bat with a mixture of amusement and distaste. "Very well. But please try to refrain from slipping into 2p mode, Alfred. You are really quite insufferable in that state."

America hefts the bat onto his shoulder and winks. "Oh don't pretend that you don't love it."

Russia sighs but his eyes sparkle with amusement. He gestures to the door and picks up his pipe. "After you."

Together they race out the door, picking off zombies as they run and grinning at each other all the while. And so what if their smiles are tinged with insanity? It's not like there's anyone alive to judge anyway.

**A/N: If you don't know what 2p!Hetalia is, I suggest you Google it ASAP**


End file.
